


Promises in the Dark

by tryslora



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Blindfolds, Blow Jobs, Community: harry_submits, Drunk Sex, First Time, Hand Jobs, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Sensory Deprivation, Threesome, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-01
Updated: 2012-03-01
Packaged: 2017-10-31 22:37:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/349082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tryslora/pseuds/tryslora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Six pints into the evening, the alumni of the Gryffindor boys’ dorm make a bet, and Harry gets much more than he bargained for on his way to trying to win it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Promises in the Dark

**Author's Note:**

> I didn't mean to write this story. But I was attacked by a bunny after reading prompt 73 by luna_altyerre at harry_submits on Livejournal and had to drop everything and write it:
> 
> _It started out as a bet…_
> 
> As always, the characters and world are owned by JK Rowling, I just like to write here.

By the time they put the blindfold over his eyes, Harry has already forgotten who made the original bet. He thinks it might have been Seamus, but right now, sitting cross-legged on the floor with his vision gone dark and his nose full of the scent of raw male musk, Harry’s pretty sure it doesn’t matter.

“Shouldn’t we be hard?”

Neville’s voice, careful but not soft. Determined. Harry tries to decide where it is, so he can use that to his advantage.

“You’ll be hard soon enough.”

Dean’s voice, deep and melodic. More depth than Harry remembers from school years, but maybe that’s the drink talking. It shivers through him, rumbling into his chest and making his groin ache.

“Shush.”

Ron gives his quiet order, then everything goes silent save for the shuffling of feet as they move around, making it impossible for Harry to know who stands where anymore.

But that’s the trick, isn’t it? Ten galleons for each prick he can correctly identify without being able to see it, and a hundred galleons if he can figure out all four of them. He can use anything but his eyes.

He reaches out blindly, head cocked, listening for cues. Someone whispers _Niaura_ , and Harry is lost. No sight, no sound. No sense of anything but the floor beneath his knees and the things he can touch with questing fingertips. They can hear him, though. He knows the spell well, has used it on suspects to separate them before interviews, deafening them temporarily so they can’t gain aural cues.

He’s never had it used on himself before. It’s strangely freeing, being in this place where there is nothing but what is solid and real.

Harry feels something touch his cheek, and he turns, lips brushing against heat. He smells musk, and his tongue flicks out to taste it. There’s a small drop at the tip, salty and bitter, but he teases the slit until another drop wells up and onto his tongue. He’s read somewhere that a bloke’s jism tastes like whatever he ate the day before, but he’s not sure he wants to go that far to figure it out. But he needs to be sure.

His hand strokes along the length of the unknown prick: shorter than his own, and slender, curved a bit just before the tip. It pulls back from his touch, then hesitates before thrusting forward again, catching Harry by surprise.

His lips part, opening for it. Swallowing it with a low moan of surprise.

Harry reaches for the balls—larger than expected, the hair fine and sparse. And he knows then that this is Seamus, who somehow never has been as furred as the rest of them.

He could stop now. He knows the answer. But Seamus is thrusting into his mouth, fingers tangling in Harry’s hair, and Harry realizes… he likes it. He likes that pull, that rough sensation, and he tries to get away just to see if Seamus will drag him back. He moans when Seamus does just that, whimpering in vibration around the prick in his mouth. Harry is surprised when Seamus comes, and he swallows the bitter fluid quickly.

He doesn’t have a chance to spit out the rest before another cock is thrust eagerly into his mouth. Hands cup his head, fingers laced at the nape of his neck, cradling him. This prick is long, the musk scented with spice. It hits the back of Harry’s throat and he gags, hands coming up to grip the thighs of the bloke fucking his face.

Tall. Muscled. He tries to loosen his throat, but he gags again as his mate thrusts hard. Tall. Harry clings to the detail, trying to separate it from the desperate need growing to get him off, to taste him. To satisfy him.

Six pints ago, Harry would never have even thought of sucking off a bloke. Now he can’t get enough.

Tall.

Either Dean or Ron, but it doesn’t smell like Ron. It doesn’t have that odd familiar scent that makes Harry remember nights in the tent when they were on the run, piled up like puppies trying to stay warm, and Harry desperate to hide an inappropriately timed erection from Ron and Hermione. He inhales again, sucking in his cheeks, applying more pressure to what he knows now is Dean’s cock. Eyes watering, he relaxes, tongue pressed to the thick vein. He remembers something Dean said earlier, about how hard it is to find a bloke that’s willing to fuck someone as tall as he is. That people are afraid of him. He cups Dean’s balls, but one finger slips back, circling the puckered hole, pressing against it.

It’s like a button, and Dean is coming, more than Harry can swallow and he spits it onto the floor, streams dribbling down onto his knees.

No one touches him as he drags in breath, head bowed. He wonders what they’re saying, if they’re asking if he’s all right. He can’t hear a word. But he aches, brutally, his cock hard and trapped in his jeans, pressed tight against his leg. He wants to take it out. To stroke it, to show them how hard this has him. But he doesn’t want them to know that this _bet_ has become the biggest turn on he can remember.

A gentle hand touches his back, sliding down to tug his shirt up. He raises his hands, allowing it to be pulled over his head, baring his chest. He feels someone settle behind him and catches that scent, a mix of wood and broom oil, mixed with the rough musk of arousal that Harry knows belongs to Ron. He’d smelled it in their tent, knew when Ron had tried to hide his own arousal. He’d heard him, the soft slap of hand on skin as Ron wanked as quietly as he could while Harry lay frozen and afraid to say a word.

It comforts Harry to feel Ron at his back, arms around him. He doesn’t mind that he can feel Ron’s prick as well, nestled between the cheeks of his jeans-clad bum. He trusts Ron, but he doesn’t betray that he knows who it is. Not yet. Instead he reaches out blindly, trying to seek the next prick.

His fingers skate over Seamus, and he nudges him out of the way with a push to the thigh. When he finds the third one, it’s thick and hard, so wide that Harry can’t wrap his fingers all the way around it. If Ron’s behind him, this has to be Neville, standing just far enough away that Harry can only reach with his fingers. He wanks him slowly, spitting into his palm to add lubrication, not sure if he should continue when Neville doesn’t move. Is he doing the wrong thing?

Neville stumbles forward a step, then another. He falls to his knees, Harry’s hand moving with him, still stroking the thick prick that stands up at attention. A forehead touches his, and Harry feels breath across his cheek, hands on his shoulders, while Ron’s arms wrap around his waist.

Harry knows he doesn’t have to do this. He knows this is just a bet, and he’s already won. He knows the answer, could stop this at any time.

But he doesn’t want to stop. He doesn’t want them to know that he has figured it out. He wants them to take more from him while he floats in this world of silence and darkness.

So Harry leans forward, lowering his head slowly, giving Neville time to escape. He ends face down in Neville’s crotch, his own bum up in the air, Ron still pressed in close behind him. He feels Ron swaying, feels his cock brush his arse, but Harry doesn’t have time to think about it.

His mouth is open so wide he can barely breathe, is so full he can’t quite move. He tries to tease Neville without moving, tongue stroking along him as gentle fingers thread through his hair. They are soft. Affectionate. Tentative at first, then firm. There is a moment when Neville teeters on the edge of letting go before his hips thrust up, pushing himself into Harry’s mouth, pushing Harry back towards Ron. Fingers tighten on his hips, and Harry can’t help but move, pressing his bum back against him.

It must be the drinks because suddenly Harry wants this more than he has wanted anything before. He’s afraid to ask, afraid to break this silence which makes things dreamlike. But as his eyes water, mouth stretched around Neville’s prick, Harry wiggles his bum, trying to entice. To tease.

He reaches back, gripping Ron’s hip, dragging him forward. Begging silently, gratified when fingers pick at the fly of his jeans, hurriedly opening them and shoving them and his pants down roughly. Harry struggles not to get bound up in them as Ron pulls them away (he assumes it’s Ron, but it could be Seamus or Dean helping, he can’t tell for sure). He hopes it’s Ron because that’s who he wants there, whose prick he wants filling him.

It only seems right to have it like this now, with Neville on the one side, and Ron on the other.

Something slick and sticky presses between the cheeks of Harry’s bum, fingers stroking and pressing into his hole. It’s too tight, and it burns, and he moans around Neville’s cock, which only makes Neville thrust harder. Neville has the endurance of a stallion, slowly fucking him and not coming. Harry’s impressed, and at the same time, he loves it, love that he can just _do_ this and let go for so long.

More presses into him, stretching him wider, moving. Breath shudders through him, body shaking from hunger and need, and from pain as well. He moans, and Neville’s hips jerk, gentle fingers tightening in his hair. The message is clear: don’t be distracted. Harry reaches for Neville’s balls, cupping them, rolling them in his hands, feeling that same motion echoed on his own balls where they hang. He presses back into the touch and feels whatever is in his bum removed, and something bigger there. Thicker. _More_.

Ron’s cock.

Harry’s seen it before. He knows it. Knows how big the head is, how Ron’s hand looks when it strokes along it, curling over the head roughly before stroking back down. He feels it now, pressing at his hole, stretching him to the point where he feels like he’s going to break. Then Neville’s fingers tighten in his hair, pulling roughly, making him choke when he can’t breath around Neville’s prick. Harry relaxes, and the head slips inside.

Ron stills, letting Harry get used to it.

It hurts like fuck.

And at the same time, it’s absolutely fucking brilliant.

He could stay like this for hours, breathing shallow gasps through his nose, inhaling Neville’s scent with every stroke, feeling Ron slowly pushing in, tiny thrust after tiny thrust. He is filled between two of the people he trusts the most. He can’t hear the words, but he can feel their touches: Neville, alternately gentle and strong, and Ron, so careful and determined. They fuck like they live their lives, and that strikes deeply into Harry’s heart.

Tears leak out the corners of his eyes as Ron finally is seated, balls touching Harry’s bum as he withdraws once and presses forward. He feels Ron shudder behind him, and suspects he is close.

So is Harry, and no one has touched him at all.

He reaches between his legs, gripping his own prick firmly, stroking in time with Neville’s thrusts. They are more awkward now, less regular. Reaching. Harry has no control over his own pressure against Neville, rocking in time with Ron’s thrusts into his arse. He moans loudly when Ron hits _something_ inside of him, something that sets his nerves on fire, and it is that moan that sets Neville off.

Harry manages to pull back, releasing Neville as he spurts, splattering Harry with sticky fluid. It isn’t that he won’t swallow him, but that he’s afraid he would choke, thick as Neville is. His head stays in Neville’s lap, licking him clean, groaning as his hand works over his own prick furiously.

Ron is fucking him. Ron is _fucking_ him, so hard and fast, hips snapping, and Harry can’t figure out why this has never happened before. Why did it take six drinks, a bet, and a blindfold for him to end up like this with Ron? With Neville? He cries out as Ron hits that place again, rocking forward into Neville’s lap, and he feels Neville gather him, pulling him in so Neville supports his upper body. A mouth finds his, and he kisses Neville hungrily.

Fingertips grip his hips, and Ron withdraws, raking over that spot, again and again, until Harry can’t stop himself and he is coming in thick spurts that coat his hand. He feels Ron tense behind him, then fill his arse.

The world spins, and he is caught between Neville and Ron, and carefully held until the world steadies once more.

He feels the cleansing spells as they withdraw, and a moment later his clothes are placed within reach. He pulls back on his jeans in the darkness, standing carefully, uncertain of where anything is.

The spell is canceled, and the blindfold untied.

Harry blinks into the brightness. His mates sit at the table, one chair empty and waiting for Harry, so he takes it and drops into it. A pint is nudged towards him as if nothing happened, but he sees the flush under Ron’s freckles, and the way his friend looks away.

Harry isn’t sure whether he should win the bet now, or if he should lose. He clears his throat.

“So what was it mate, could you tell?” Seamus asks with a grin.

He takes a long sip, considering each of them, then shakes his head slowly. “Felt like I ought to know, but I just wasn’t sure.”

“No matter.” Seamus reached over to muss Harry’s hair. “None of this leaves the room, yeah?”

Harry felt warmth rising to his cheeks. “Yeah. I don’t think this needs to go anywhere but here.”

They drink another round to make it seven, then one more to finish out at eight. Seamus rises unsteadily to his feet, and Dean catches him, holding him up as they stumble slightly towards the door. “Next Friday?” Dean asks.

Ron nods. It’s their routine, after all, gathering in Harry and Ron’s apartment after work every Friday, drinking a few rounds and catching up. Harry tries not to flush.

When the door closes, Neville rises as well. “I ought to be going,” he says quietly. “Mind if I use the Floo?”

Harry glances at Ron, who is studying the table, then reaches out and grabs Neville’s wrist, tugging until Neville falls back into his chair. “Stay,” he says. “I know it was you two at the end, and I’m glad.”

“You are?” Ron glances up, startled.

“You might not think that in the morning,” Neville cautions, round cheeks flushed a bright pink.

“Then maybe we ought to try it again in the morning. So I’ll know for sure,” Harry suggests. “Besides, you’ve had a good bit to drink and I’ve got a bed plenty large enough. You can kip here.”

There was a small cough, and Harry smiles at Ron. “It’s big enough for three, if we’re cozy,” he says firmly.

“Why’d you lie?” Neville asks, once the three of them are arranged in that bed, comfortably sprawled in a tangled pile. “If you knew it was us—”

“I knew who all of them were,” Harry admits. “But the galleons didn’t matter, and it would’ve made it awkward. What actually mattered was that what happened with you two was absolutely brilliant.”

“Mmph. Always knew you were watching when I wanked,” Ron mutters.

Harry laughs. “Might’ve been. But I don’t have to just watch any more, do I?”

“But what if—”

“Sh.” Harry touches Neville’s lips and whispers _Nox_ to plunge the room into darkness. “Everything’s going to be just fine now that we’ve got this sorted. I promise.”


End file.
